


System Failure and Reckless Behavior

by hellotoysoldier



Series: Screw Loose [2]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Depression, F/M, Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, mentions of eating disorders, off screen character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-15 16:58:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2236548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellotoysoldier/pseuds/hellotoysoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set a few years after Screw Loose, Michael is a machine. He's got his routines and a thousand reasons why he should let life move on around him. He doesn't want anything to change. And when Ray and Lindsay drag him into their school's competitive theater group, Michael feels his world tilt and shift around him and he can't tell if things are going to get better or worse.</p><p>Meanwhile, Gavin Free, local British transfer student and one of the coolest kids in school, can't seem to leave Michael alone.</p><p>How long can he juggle school, friends, theater, and the chaos inside his own head before everything comes crashing down around him?</p><p>(you should probably read Screw Loose first)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. need you like water in my lungs

**Wednesday September 21, 2011**

Every morning is exactly the same. He wakes up. He hates himself for waking up. He stares up at the ceiling until he finds the energy to function. And he gets out of bed, solely to keep his mother from worrying. Waking up in the morning never used to be this hard. He hasn’t been alright in such a long time.

Imagine waking up from a nightmare. The chill in the air and the panic are erased by a blinding relief. Wide eyes can relax and lungs can finally accept a deep breath.  Just pull the blanket up past the eyes and everything will be alright.

Now imagine waking up in a nightmare. For Michael, the nightmare is life. There is no relief. There is no deep breath or security blankets. There’s only this. Rust in his joints, hollow bones, a glitch in his head, and tired eyes.

That being said, Michael Jones wants to disappear completely. He wants to float off into space, he wants the silence to envelope him, and he wants to be completely numb. He wants the world to carry on without him while he stands still. He wants time to forget all about him while he stops.  He wants everyone to tell him that they’ll be okay without him, just so he won’t feel too guilty about leaving. However, he hasn’t quite figured out how to achieve disappearing completely without offing himself. And so he exists. He exists even though his body and mind want him to give up on the mere idea of life

His alarm goes off at 6:45 every single morning. Sometimes he eats breakfast, but most of the time, he eats caffeine pills from a box that he keeps by his bed. Michael hasn’t slept well in six months.  He yawns and rubs at his eyes, glances around his mostly empty room, and finds the energy to get out of bed.  He plugs his iPod into the speakers he keeps in the bathroom and he turns on his Morning Playlist. Pop punk bands are his favorite. His routine is simple. Piss. Shower. Brush teeth. Dress. It doesn’t take him long to choose what to wear. He owns less than one hundred things. Six of those things are shirts. Five of them are pairs of boxers. Two of them are jeans. Three of them are jackets. One of them is a pair of shoes. It works out pretty well. He does laundry often enough. Afterwards, he feels more awake. Less like he’s going to fall over and die at any second. He fingers the dog tag hanging from a chain around his neck. The words "Michael and Babs Forever" were etched into the metal. The chain is getting old, Michael notices. He will have to buy a new one.

He grabs his maroon hoodie, slipping it on and telling his mother that he loves her before walking out the front door. David will ride with one of his friends and his mother will drive Jimmy to the junior high school. It isn’t that they haven’t offered to drive Michael to school, it’s that Michael enjoys walking. It helps him clear his head. They say that exercise helps improve depression, but Michael hasn’t noticed any changes yet.

The high school is only a fifteen minute walk away from his house.

The main road runs perpendicular to his block. There’s a gas station on the corner that he hits up every morning for coffee. Molly, the dark skinned and heavy-set cashier who always works the morning shift, greets him. “Hey, baby, how the heck are you?” she asks him.

“I’m good, Molly. How’s your morning?” Michael asks her as he fills a large cup with black coffee.

“Exhausting, as usual. How’d you do on your algebra test?”

“Aced it,” he smiles. “I got an A. Only missed one question.” He says, snapping the lid on.

“Just like I said you would.”

He laughs a little bit. “Yeah, yeah. You told me so. I know.” Walking the three steps up to the counter, he makes eye contact with her and she shakes her head at him.

“Don’t get short with me,” she says, but she’s smiling.

“I’m sorry,” he smiles back as he hands over the money with exact change. $2.07. “Wish I had time to talk today, but I’ve got to go.”

“Alright, honey. Be good.”

“Always am,” Michael calls over his shoulder at her as he walks out of the gas station and into the chilly September morning. Michael genuinely likes Molly.

After crossing the main road, things get quiet. Quaint little houses line the road and he knows that little old ladies live in them with there dogs and their gardens. Everything seems far too mundane. Another couple minutes pass and he can’t help but look down an intersecting road at the empty Dunkelman house that sits right in the middle of the block. A mere five minute walk away from Michael’s own house. He wonders for a moment if it still reeks of old laughter and Barbara’s incense, or if the walls are still saturated in her mother’s perfume and her father’s cigarette smoke. The “For Sale” sign still stands in the front of the yard. Michael doesn’t think anybody will ever want to live there.

There’s a hole in him, somewhere. The edges throb when he acknowledges old memories. He feels the emptiness at all times. It weighs him down in a strange way. Emptiness and Nothing shouldn’t make him feel heavy, but they do. They always do.

 

He meets Ray at his locker, like he does every day, where Lindsay and Kerry are already discussing weekend plans.

“Homecoming is this Friday,” Lindsay pipes up. “We’re all carpooling to the game. You in?”

Michael would cringe, but he doesn't want her to get upset with him. "I don't know, man."

"Oh, come on," she argues. "When was the last time you spent a Friday night with anyone besides your laptop?"

That struck something inside his head. He wanted to argue back, defend himself, but he realizes that he can't remember when he last spent any time with his friends outside of school. “Alright, fine," he surrenders. "Not like I’ve got anything better to do,”

She smiles.

“Do you think we’ll finally win this year?” Kerry pipes up.

“Fat fucking chance,”  Ray says. “We haven’t won Homecoming since we were freshies.”

“Who the fuck even cares?” Lindsay rolls her eyes. “We never really pay attention to the game, anyway.”

Michael takes a sip from his coffee and decides that even if their team was any good, he wouldn’t give any fucks about what was going on in the game. Lindsay is right. They never go to watch the actual game. He supposes that the only reason anybody goes to the games is more to do with the atmosphere than the team’s actual skills.

“We’re all leaving around half past six,” Ray tells Michael. “So I was thinking that I’d just come home with you that day.”

Michael shrugs. “I mean, whatever works, I guess.”

The bell rings, signalling five minutes until first period.  Lindsay and Kerry take off down the hall. They’ve got to be on the other side of the school building for first period. Ray and Michael make the short walk to the end of the hall. Their classrooms are parallel to each other.

“Kerry’s going to pick us up. We won’t all fit in Lindsay’s shitty truck.”

Michael laughs. “We doing anything after the game?”

“Not sure yet. We might grab a bite to eat, but Lindsay might put us up at her house for the night. We can have a game night. Like we used to.”

Game nights. Ray, Lindsay, and Michael. Mountains of junk food and a thousand bottles of soda. They used to see four in the morning every weekend. Lindsay’s dad used to make pizzas for them. He remembers why they stopped having game nights, but that isn’t important now. Don’t dwell on the past, that’s what Michael’s mother always tells him.

“Yeah,” Michael says. “Like we used to.”

First period. American history. Boring as fuck, in Michael’s opinion. Memorizing dates and names and forgetting them all once the tests are over with. The second he was in his seat, he set his coffee to the side and he pulled his journal out of his bag. Pen in hand and the teacher droning on in the background, he opened it to the next blank page and began to write.

_September 21st, 2011_

_The Homecoming game is on Friday. Two days from now. We’re all going in Kerry’s car. It sounds like a good idea. I mean, I haven’t actually been out with my friends in a few months, so we’ll see. Hopefully I can enjoy myself._

**  
  
**

The rest of the day passed slowly, like most Wednesdays usually do. Second period, he could feel the caffeine eating away at his stomach lining. That’s what he gets for taking the pills on an empty stomach. And by fourth period, they’d mostly worn off. He fixes it by chugging down a diet Pepsi that he bought from a vending machine between classes and he makes a mental note to get to bed earlier. At lunch, he eats a salad and a granola bar while Ray copies his history homework. The rest of the day is just rapid finger tapping and quick glances at the clocks.

Michael walks home with one earbud shoved in his ear, blaring Fall Out Boy’s “Infinity On High” album at full volume. He avoided glancing down the road at Barbara's old house (however, he did clutch at the dog tag that sits right under his shirt) and he did not go into the gas station. He crosses the main road and goes straight home, where his brothers are already settled on the couch, watching cartoons. His mother was sitting at the kitchen table, writing what looked like a grocery list.

"Hi Michael," she greets him.

"Hey, Mom," he says back, ruffling her hair in passing. "Ray's coming over on Friday. Is that okay?"

She shrugs. "Fine with me. It's been awhile since I've seen him. What are you guys going to do?"

He sits his backpack down in one of the chairs and goes to rummage around in the refrigerator. "Kerry's going to pick us up. We're going to the football game." He finds a yogurt and a bottle of water that might as well have his name written all over them. "Lindsay's going, too."

"Will you need any money?"

Michael thinks about it for a moment before replying. "Not sure yet. Maybe, though."

"I can spot you ten bucks. It's not a big deal," she tells him. "Also, dinner's at six. We're having grilled chicken."

"Awesome. I'll be in my room if you need me." He grabs a spoon from a drawer before heading down the hallway to his room at the back of the house. He boots up his laptop and is notified of two new emails. Both are notifications from clashjournal.com.

**_New comment from CJ user bluebirds!_ **

_That's a really good picture of you! You're hair's getting a bit long, huh? I think my  hair's actually shorter than yours at this point. Haha._

He smiles, clicking the link and going straight to Michael's online journal. The comment was on his most recent entry, titled "Recent happenings." He talks about school in the entry. Nothing exciting. At the end, he posted a picture that he took with his webcam. He was wearing one of his hoodies that seems to be two sizes too big for him. His hair was a mess and he was sort of smiling. It definitely isn't a bad picture, Michael decides.

He types back a reply.

_ltmkilla_

_Thanks Tora! Did you get your hair cut again? You haven't posted a picture of yourself in a while. I demand that you post one in your next entry! :P_

Michael does the math in his head. It's about eight in the morning in New Zealand. She probably won't be online again until late afternoon. Her time, of course.

 _ **  
**_He checks the other comment.

_ bluebirds _

_by the way, honey, you don't update as often anymore. I think you should post more entries. Like, twice a week, at least. I miss you! xx_

Michael smiled at that one, too.

_ltmkilla_

_I'm sorry, it's just that my life isn't that interesting at the moment. I'll try to update more. But only because you didn't really ask, you demanded ;P_

He logs into Facebook and sees that he has zero notifications. No surprise there. Seconds later, He gets a message from Ray.

 

 _Ray_ :

_Just got word that Courtney's going to be at the game on Friday._

__

Michael rolls his eyes and sighs. Here we go again, he thinks.

_Michael_ :

_We'll just avoid her._

__

_Ray :_

_You think she's petty enough to go out of her way to fuck with us?_

__

_Michael :_

_i don't know, man. She's left you alone since July. Why would she choose now to mess with you?_

__

_Ray :_

_I don't know. Maybe I'm just being paranoid._

__

_Michael :_

_You definitely are just being paranoid._

__

_Ray :_

_Thanks a lot man._

__

_Michael :_

_Seriously, though. If anything happens, I'm sure we can just take care of it. But I'm 99% sure that she'll leave us alone._

__

_Ray :_

_why not 100%?_

__

_Michael :_

_Because you've got me overthinking it, asshole. That 1% went down the drain when you brought it up._

__

_Ray :_

_Right. Okay. We'll avoid her._

__

Michael sighs again. It's been three months since Ray broke up with Courtney. He remembers the nasty text messages and the voicemails and the shitty posts she made on Facebook about him. It definitely wasn't pretty. Michael sees why Ray is so nervous to even be in the same place as Courtney, but it's getting old.

Another few seconds pass and he had a notification. Lindsay wrote on his wall.

_"Can't wait until Friday! :D"_

And yeah, Michael can't really wait either.

 

Later, after dinner, after doing homework, after some late night internet browsing, and after finally falling asleep, Michael opens his eyes.and finds that he is entirely too warm under his covers. His body is covered in sweat and his hair is plastered to his forehead. He pulls his shirt over his head and throws it at the wall. His pillow is uncomfortably damp, so he flips it over. The bed beneath him is damp as well.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he mutters. His phone tells him that it’s just after three in the morning and there’s a buzzing somewhere in his head that tells him he isn’t getting back to sleep right away.

His bedside lamp illuminates the room and he waits for his eyes to adjust.

 

_Thursday September 22, 2011_

_it’s three in the goddamn morning and I hate night sweats. I haven’t had this issue for four whole months, so why now? Maybe it's because my friends are taking me out on Friday night. It's been awhile since I've gone anywhere besides school.  I'll admit, I'm a little excited. Only a little though. Obviously, I'm anxious about it, too. I guess I should be thankful that this night sweating issue is chronic, though. I’d hate to have to deal with this all the fucking time. I think I need to shower now._

**  
  
**

Thursday passes like any other day. He wakes up. Piss. Shower. Brush teeth. Dress. Coffee. School. First period is boring. Second period English literature is only slightly more interesting. They started another chapter of The Great Gatsby. Third period gym class sucks, but that's nothing new. Fourth period biology is easy and uninteresting. Fifth period study hall is quiet as he finishes the remaining pages of the chapter they'd started in English lit. Lunch came and went, and so did advanced algebra. Spanish was spent taking pages and pages of notes.

Intro to Art is his final and favorite class of the day. He had begged the counselors to put him in the class, and they had made it happen. Michael has been working on a simple pencil sketch since the beginning of September. Their teacher, Mr. Rick, let them pick what their first assignment would be and the class decided on sketches. Michael had never been too good with drawing real people. He could draw objects and buildings and animals, but those things were so boring. They were things that people could look at every single day.

His favorite things to draw were monsters. He could make them up as he went along, put their eyes wherever he wanted, give them six legs or no legs at all, make them colossal or minuscule, and do whatever he pleased with them. For this assignment, he is sketching a monster that stands on two legs and it has no arms. It's tall. It has massive eyes and a round mouth with a circle of sharp teeth on the inside. It has two horns protruding from the top of its head. In the background, Michael drew a mountain way off in the distance. There was a hole in the side of it; a cave. That's where the monster came from. It definitely isn’t a "pretty" picture, but it's intricate, with lines and shadows and depth and Mr. Rick says he's excited to see it when Michael is done.

When the door opens, Michael isn’t paying attention. No, it isn’t until somebody sits in the seat beside him that he jolts back into himself.

“Hi,” the boy sitting next to him says. Michael feels the nervousness swell up inside of him and pop like a balloon. The boy is familiar. Michael knows him. How could he forget him? They had homeroom together for three years, and they would’ve started high school together if he hadn’t moved all the way back to England once his exchange program was up.

“Michael,” Mr. Rick says from behind him. “This is Gavin Free.”

“I know who he is,” Michael interrupts. “We had homeroom together in junior high.”

Gavin smiles. He hasn’t looked away once. Michael wonders why Gavin doesn’t sit somewhere else.

“Okay. Good. I told him to sit where he wants. Help him out if he asks, alright?”

“Sure.” Michael looks back down at his drawing. There are only a few seconds of silence after Mr. Rick retreats back to his desk.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me, to be honest,” Gavin says.

“Why would you think that?” Michael decides to make the legs thin with the skin stretched tight over bones. He thinks that it will add to the tone.

“Dunno,” Gavin shrugs. He sees it out of the corner of his eye. “It was years ago. You didn’t want to talk to anybody. Why would you remember?”

“You’ve got it all backwards. Nobody wanted to talk to me,” Michael explains.  The monster’s toes are pointed with claws that dig into the ground like he’s hanging on for dear life. “So why would you remember?”

“Why would I forget?” Gavin shoots back. “What are you drawing?”

Gavin makes Michael’s chest feel tight. “A monster.”

A beat of silence passes before he answers. “Looks good. Really good.”

Michael looks up at him for a split second, just to make sure that he is being serious. “Thanks.”

“Where can I get some paper?”

“Right,” Michael sets his pencil down and points across the room wih a slightly shaking hand. Maybe Gavin won’t notice, he hopes. “See that countertop over there? Third drawer from the left is paper. Take the size you want. There are paints and markers and crap in all the other drawers. Pick what you need.” Michael picks his pencil up again and picks up where he left off.

“Thanks, Michael,” he says. And he leaves.

Michael takes a deep breath and decides to sketch the monster’s torso smaller as well, with ribs that lie parallel to one another and a concave basin of a stomach. Gavin sits down next to him again, but Michael doesn’t pay any attention to him. He keeps sketching. Veins protrude in places like its straining itself to even move. A thin neck leads up to an ugly head. Sunken eyes and cheeks and a mouth that's open wide. He wants to make it clear that the teeth are so shiny, that people could see their own reflections, but he isn’t sure that he has the time for that.

Maybe I should finish this, he thinks. Maybe I'm done with it.  But maybe not, he thinks as he adds more shadows underneath the angry eyes.  The thing is a walking skeleton at this point and Michael is almost satisfied with what he has.

"Better start cleaning up, guys," Mr. Rick tells the class. "The bell's about to ring."

Michael puts his pencil down.

Maybe it's a metaphor for something, he thinks.

“Where can I put my drawing?” Gavin asks him.

He glances over at the lines on the paper, so light that Michael can’t even tell what it’s supposed to be yet. “We’ve got folders. Two poster boards stapled together. Mr. Rick can help you with that.”

“Right. Thanks,” and he’s gone, off to talk with the teacher.

Michael puts his pencil behind his ear and stares down at his sketch, his metaphor. His face pinches into a scowl. With a sigh, he shoves it into his charcoal grey folder.

“Can I share with you today?” Gavin asks.

He seems sheepish, Michael observes. It makes him look small. “Uh, what?”

“Er, Mr. Rick says to just put my work in someone else’s portfolio for now. Can I keep mine in yours? Just for now?”

Small. Shy. Wide-eyed. Completely different from what he used to be. “Yeah,” Michael answers. “Yeah, of course.”

Gavin grins, wide and sincere. Michael shows him where the folders are kept. When the bell rings, he grabs his bag and leaves through the doors next to the art room. He is one of the first people out the door, so nobody flags him down or calls his name. It's just him. He’s alone to shake off the anxiety that Gavin left him with. The sky is overcast, like it might rain at some point. He shoots a quick text to his mom, telling her that he's going for a walk before heading home. That's all he says. She knows where he's going. He turns his iPod on and hits shuffle.

“Play Crack The Sky” by Brand New begins playing. Michael changes his mind and puts the song on repeat.

His destination is a few miles away. It’s a ten minute backtrack to the gas station and a short walk down the main road. Fourteen blocks later, he crosses the road into quiet suburbs where kids play with their dads and moms in front yards. Dogs bark and the occasional stray cat runs to hide out in a dripping storm drain. Cars remain parked along the sides of roads or in driveways. Everything is where it should be.

The cemetery gates hang overhead in no time at all, so he pulls his earbuds out and pockets his iPod. He walks along the winding path lined with tall trees and headstones. It’s mostly silent. The singing birds really ruin it for Michael, but he’s willing to ignore them.

Up ahead, Michael sees orange and yellow flowers next to an all too familiar headstone. He knows that they’re fake. They’re always fake. Someone must have changed them for autumn. He approaches the headstone and smiles as he sees her name, like the last remaining part of her.

He pulls his hoodie over his head and lays it on the ground before sitting. “Hey, Barb.” He pretends that the silence that greets him doesn’t hurt. His bookbag lands on the ground with a heavy thud and he pulls his journal out. “I miss you.” He wishes, as always, that he was speaking with her for real. Her name etched in stone is as good as it gets. “I’ve been okay. Ray and Lindsay and Kerry and I are going to the Homecoming game tomorrow. If you were here, I’d beg you to come along. I know you probably wouldn’t want to go, but you’d be there anyway.”  

He flips through his journal, looking for something to talk about, but there’s nothing. Michael doesn’t ever do anything worth talking about. The cover of his journal is worn and soft from being thrown around in his bag every single day. “I haven’t cut myself since March. That’s good, right? That’s like, six months, since the last time. Since--”

_Since I last heard your voice._

He sits in silence for a few minutes. Leaning back on his hands and staring up at the overcast sky. It just looks like one massive grey cloud hanging over the town. He doesn’t say anything about school, or home, or the picture he was drawing to represent her in art class. He just sits. And maybe he should feel more alone than he does, and maybe it’s because this is routine at this point, and maybe because he still has the mere idea of Barbara Dunkelman fresh in his head, but--

“Honestly, Babs, I’m okay when I’m here. With you,” he tells the name on the headstone. “When I’m elsewhere, I want to stop existing and disappear completely. And I always wish you were here.”

**Friday September 23, 2011**

Michael wakes up with a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.  It’s different from his hatred of waking up and his emptiness. He recognizes it as apprehension, but he decides to ignore it before he even gets out of bed. His walk to school isn't as pleasant as usual due to the rain that begins to leak from the sky. It isn't heavy enough for him to ask his mother for a ride to school, but he decides to skip the gas station to save himself some time in case the rain picks up. He just puts his hood up and keeps walking. It speckles his glasses and polka-dots his grey hoodie. Everybody in his first period class stares at Michael's wet bangs and they know that he walked to school.

Michael isn't sure why that makes him feel so intimidated, but it does.

This day is as boring as the last two. Classes suck up until art class, where he gets lost in his sketch once again and Gavin doesn’t say a single word to him, even though, at the end of the day, they’re still sharing Michael’s folder.

He finds Ray waiting for him at his locker. “Ready to go?” He asks.

Michael nods. They leave the building.

“I got my copy of Gears of War: 3,” Ray tells him. “Haven’t even opened it yet.”

“Awesome, man. We can play it when we get to my house.”

The apprehension is still present at the back of Michael’s being, but he choses to smile, anyway.

They get settled in Michael’s room, Ray with a controller in hand and Michael with his laptop open. Tora hasn’t been online since she left those comments, which is nothing new. He remembers what she said about Michael needing to update more. The “Post New Entry” icon stares at him from the top of the screen. Maybe she was right.

“They need a few more people in one act,” Ray says. “I was thinking about joining.”

Michael clicks the icon and a text box pops up. Waiting for words. “What the fuck is one act?” Michael asks, fingers resting on the keys.

“Like theater. Short half hour plays.”

“And you want to be an actor?”

“No. They need crew members.”

“And since when do you want to participate in anything like that?”

“Since I figured out it was going to get me out of school. They do competitions. Like, all day things. We go, we watch a shit load of plays, and we perform. Beats taking fucking notes all damn day.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

Ray’s character dies on screen. “Exhausting?”

“Yeah. Like, committing and doing something and working with people. Exhausting,” he explains.

“Right. Well,” Ray begins. He’s about to drop a bombshell. Michael would know that tone anywhere. “I may have already told the director that we’d be at practice next Tuesday.”

He whips his head around. Ray’s staring at the television, where he hasn’t even respawned yet. “What?”

“Are you mad?”

“What the _fuck_ do you think, Ray?” He slams his laptop shut and throws it aside. “Are you fucking _kidding me_?”

“It won’t be that bad--”

“You couldn’t even ask me first?”

“I didn’t know it was such a big deal!”

“Goddammit, Ray.”  Michael ends up in the bathroom down the hall. He doesn’t turn the light on and he doesn’t look at himself in the mirror. He takes a seat on the edge of the bathtub and breathes for a moment. He should talk to Lindsay.

 

_Michael :_

_Ray’s going to drag me into this one act bullshit._

__

When he doesn’t get a reply five minutes later, he pockets his phone and decides to wash his hands to pass the time. He needs to not be angry when he goes back into his room. His phone buzzes in his pocket, so he dries his hands and checks it.

_Lindsay :_

_Yeahhh, that may have been my idea. We’re really short on crew members and I can’t help because I’m an actress._

“Well, fuck,” he mutters to himself.

 

_Michael :_

_Wow, thanks for talking to me about this beforehand, assholes._

__

David and Jimmy are sitting in the living room watching a James Bond movie. His mother is still at work. In the kitchen, he grabs a Coke from the fridge and pops it open. He begins to wonder what theater crew members even do. They build the set and they...keep everything in order maybe? Michael doesn’t know. He’s never really been interested in theater before.

His phone buzzed once again.

 

_Lindsay :_

_We need someone to paint the set. I figured you’d want to do that._

__

Painting. Michael could work with painting. It wasn’t his favorite thing to do, but he could do it.

He assumes ten minutes have passed since he left Ray in his room, so he sighs and grabs another Coke to bring back to him.

“Still mad?” Ray asks him, not taking his eyes off of the screen.

“Shut up,” Michael tosses the Coke in Ray’s lap. “Lindsay says I’ll get to paint. This doesn’t mean I’m not angry, though.”

“Of course.”

“I said shut up.”

**Post to: ltmkilla.clashjournal.com**

**Entry Title:** _My Friends are Assholes_

_Friday September 23, 2011_

_Ray came home with me after school today. We decided to play some video games before going to the Homecoming game tonight (well, he’s playing and I’m here on CJ). And then he started talking about the theater group that our high school has. They need crew members. And Ray may have told the director that we’d be there when the group meets next. “We” meaning Ray and Michael. Ray, who wants to be in theater to get out of class, and Michael, who wishes Ray had said something to him beforehand._

_So I left the room (because I was so fucking angry) and I messaged Lindsay about it and she was in on it. SHE WAS FUCKING IN ON IT. She told Ray to tell the director that I’d be there. What did I do to deserve this? What did I ever do to either of them? Why do they feel the need to sign me up for things that involve SOCIAL INTERACTION and PHYSICAL WORK without my say-so?_

_Lindsay says that i get to paint, so I can’t be too angry about being volunteered for this, but I really do wish they’d said something about it to me instead of dropping the bombshell. I hate feeling like I have no control._

_On the plus side, the Homecoming game is going to be fantastic. I’m hoping that this will take my mind off of everything. Maybe it’ll take the edge off of all of the things I’ve been feeling, lately. Finger crossed._

When Kerry picks them up, Lindsay and Miles are already in the car. “Hurry up, losers!” Miles calls out. “My girlfriend is saving us seats!”

Ray and Michael get in the back seat with Lindsay. “So here’s what’s up,” she says to them. “We can’t hang at my house tonight because my brother has a ton of his friends over. We should totally go out to eat after the game, though.”

“Sounds good,” Ray says.

Michael sits in between Ray and Lindsay as they sing along to whatever crappy song Kerry is playing from his iPod. He smiles because he’s missed them.

They find Arryn and Monty at the bottom of the first section of bleachers. They’ve saved a space for all of them.

“How are we doing?” Miles asks.

“We’re getting our asses beat,” Monty tells him. He seems bored.

Michael sits down beside Ray. Lindsay, instead of sitting beside Michael, sits on the ground in front of him and leans back until she’s settled between his legs. The contact is simple enough. Knees to shoulders. He places his hands on her head and ruffles her hair a little and she laughs. Michael laughs, too. He feels comfortable.

“Arryn’s sister is working at the cafe tonight,” Miles says. “If we go eat there, she’ll probably give us a discount.”

“The only thing better than food is cheap food,” Ray says. “I’m in.”

“Same,” Lindsay says. “And Michael’s in, too, because I’m not going anywhere without him.”

He smiles. “What, am I stapled to you now?”

“We’ve always been stapled to each other. Where have you been?”

The crowd buzzes around them as they talk. They are in their own world. Michael watches the field, a mass of bodies on the ground over and over and over again. The score is 21 to zero. The other guys are winning. Ray and Miles talk about Gears of War 3. Monty, Kerry, and Arryn talk about anime. Lindsay and MIchael talk about one act.

“I’m not mad about joining one act,” he explains. “I’m mad that you guys didn’t talk to me about it first.”

Lindsay tips her head back to look at him properly. “You would’ve said yes. It’s a chance to do art stuff.”

“That’s not the point, Lindsay.” Michael isn’t mad about it anymore, but he wants to talk to her about it anyway.

“We just want you to get out of your room. That’s all,” she says, and she’s suddenly serious. “You get up, you go to school, and you go home. We’re worried, is all.”

He blinks once. Twice. There’s something warm blooming in his chest, spreading outwards, radiating heat. He likes the way it feels. “You guys don’t have to worry about me,” he tells her.

“Shut up,” She says, but she’s smiling. “I just can’t wait to do one act with my two best friends.”

“So,” Ray cuts in. “Exactly how often do we get out of class for this?”

Michael rolls his eyes and laughs. “You’re in it for all the wrong reasons.”

“And?”

Half-time happens. The school band plays and the homecoming queen and king are announced. Nobody’s listening. Miles and Kerry are throwing popcorn at each other, and when a teacher approaches them and tells them to stop making a mess, Michael and Lindsay laugh themselves to tears.

It’s when Ray decides that he’s bored. When Miles and Kerry and Arryn and Monty agree. It’s when Ray sees Courtney standing in a group nearby. When Lindsay and Michael decide that they don’t care what they do, as long as they do something fun that they all decide to leave.

There’s a playground right outside of the football field. They commandeer the swing sets and see who can swing the highest. It’s when Lindsay and Michael are attempting to kick holes in the evening sky that Michael sees the chain of his dog tag fly up in his face. The dog tag itself isn’t there, though. It’s just two ends of a broken chain.

His heart leaps in his chest and he drags his feet in the dirt to stop the swing. His hands grip the front of his hoodie, looking for a place that _Michael and Babs Forever_ might be hiding, but he finds nothing. He pulls the chain until it’s resting, coiled in his hand.

“What’s wrong?” Lindsay asks him, still swinging next to him.

“My dog tag broke.”

“Shit.” Her shoes dig into the ground so hard that Michael is surprised that she didn’t fall face first off the swing. Michael can’t do anything but stare at the ground, hoping to find it at his feet, but nothing can ever be that easy. Lindsay puts a hand on his arm. “Come on, I’ll help you look.”

The sun had set hours ago. One measly streetlight illuminated the area. Michael couldn’t see a damn thing. He backtracked through the park, through the parking lot, back towards the football field, and to the bleachers. Another group of kids has already taken their spot on the bleachers and the mere thought of asking them to move makes his skin crawl, so he stares at them until Lindsay tugs on the hood of his jacket.  He checks his pockets again, just for good measures.

It’s as they’re walking back again, eyes on the ground, Lindsay’s voice filling the silence and Michael’s mind flinging dumb, irrational thoughts in every possible direction, that the world begins to fracture.

A car horn sounds from across the lot. “Lindsay! Michael!” Ray shouts. “Get in!”

No, he thinks.

“What the fuck?” Lindsay asks, mostly to herself, and they walk to the car. Miles and Kerry and Ray are already inside. “Where the fuck are you guys going?”

“Courtney and her friends left the game and they were hanging out in the park,” Ray explains.

“So basically, he’s running away,” Miles cuts in.

“Not running away. Avoiding. Right Michael?”

No.

“Maybe it fell off in the car,” Lindsay says. She grips his hand and squeezes once before getting into the car. He doesn’t let himself hope. And as they drive off, he stares out the back window at the swing set, at the stadium, and at the space in between. He doesn’t want to think about leaving Michael and Babs Forever behind. Some kid is going to find it someday soon, or maybe not so soon. They will admire the shiny surface and make their parents read the words to them. Maybe it’ll be the token they put in a chest for a lovely game of Pirates, or maybe it’ll be the valuable thing they use in a daily game of Cops and Robbers, and maybe they won’t understand how important it is, and so they’ll throw it away.

Michael feels sick to his stomach.

Miles drives them to the cafe, where Arryn and Monty are already sat at a table. Michael sits between Kerry and Lindsay. Arryn’s sister comes by to take everyone’s order. Michael decides that he isn’t very hungry. He’ll save his money for morning coffees, or maybe he’ll just give it back to his mom.

“You sure you don’t want anything?” she asks him.

Michael shrugs. “Yeah. I’m not really hungry. Thank you, though.”

Conversation starts back up after she walks away, but he can’t seem to keep his mind on track. Lindsay and Ray and Monty are talking about school while Miles and Arryn and Kerry are talking about video games. Michael feels caught in between, like he doesn’t belong. Like he’s just there. Existing in Limbo, but this is what he wanted all along, right? He wanted to be included.

Food arrives. Michael checks his phone for the first time all night and he isn’t surprised when he sees that he has no messages. He’s about to message his mother when a tall glass is slammed down in front of him. He looks up and meets her gaze.

“I know you said you didn’t want anything, but I’ve been experimenting with iced coffee lately,” she smiles. “On the house.”

“Y-you don’t have to--”

She cuts him off. “Don’t worry about it, kid.” And she walks away from them again.

Lindsay tries to share her french fries with him, but the smell alone is causing his stomach to churn. The coffee is sweet. Vanilla and bitter linger on his tongue in a tricky balancing act. Maybe it’s the familiar taste of the coffee, or maybe it’s the kindness of the gesture, but it makes Michael feel slightly better.

The next two hours pass quickly enough. Michael fills it with half-hearted conversation and tired words. The feeling taking over is familiar. Well worn. He would recognize it anywhere.

Miles drives them home, and thankfully, he drops Michael off first. As he is stepping onto the curb outside his house, Lindsay speaks up. “There’s another game next Friday. You want to do this all again?” She seems hopeful, so he pulls his face into something like a smile, if not for him, then for her.

“We’ll see, Lindsay.”

He tells them all goodbye and he watches them disappear down the road. The late night katydids sing their songs to the moon and the stars and the clouds dance slowly and quietly across the sky. A light breeze combs through the trees and Michael stands completely still. He sighs.

The lights are off in the house, and he attempts to be quiet as he slips his key into the lock. The door doesn’t squeak when it opens and he closes it slowly.

Flicking the light switch into an on position didn’t make everything seem any less empty. He feels exactly the same, except now the lights are on. It almost makes it worse. The clock ticking on the wall reminds him that time is still moving all around him. The Earth is turning, the moon is rising higher in the sky. And while his brothers and his mother and his neighbors are sleeping soundly in their beds, Michael is frozen, taking calculated breaths and clenching his fists in his kitchen, a place where all time seems to have stopped. Suspended until Michael can figure out how to move again.

And when he manages to break free, he goes straight to his bedroom, where his online journal waits.

Tonight is one of those nights where he wishes he could contact Tora. He can always shoot her a message or two on ClashJournal, but it’s something like early afternoon in Tora Land. Michael is positive that CJ user Bluebirds has better things to do on a Saturday afternoon.

So he writes it out instead.

 

**Post to: ltmkilla.clashjournal.com**

**Entry Title:** _Sometimes I feel like I am permafrost._

_I don't even know why. Nothing extremely terrible happened.  I lost the dogtag Barbara gave me for my birthday. The one that said “Michael and Babs Forever.” The chain broke and I didn't know it. I just feel so detached right now._

_We lost the game. 10-41 -.-' Hoo-fucking-Rah._

_I should've fucking stayed home tonight. I should've stayed home, safe and sound. I would not have lost my dogtag. I would not have ended up feeling so alone.  I'm a fucking mess..I feel like grabbing the nearest sharp object and going to fucking town on the first patch of skin i see...and I don't even have a Reason. I'm just stuck inside my own motherfucking mind._

_I should not feel this alone. Not after I spent four hours with people I love. Not after tonight. I've been looking forward to tonight all week. And now I can't remember why I wanted to go in the first place. I'm just a third wheel. I don't belong there. I should've stayed home.... I'm going to fucking cry and I don't even have a real reason. I've just never felt more alone._

 

When it’s all out there, he feels as if the entry should be longer. There aren’t enough words on the page, but he doesn’t feel like writing anymore. The things happening inside his head feel much bigger than a few paragraphs. So he posts it and he throws his laptop aside.

The bathroom door closes behind him before he’s even realized that his legs have taken him somewhere. This room is frozen like the kitchen.  And Michael wishes that he’d never looked in the mirror at his unruly hair and his pale face, blank expression, empty eyes…

So he sinks down to the floor and the air stops circulating in the spaces of his lungs. His knees against his chest only make him feel slightly better, but it doesn’t make his breath come any easier.

It never does.

This overwhelming sense of guilt and regret crush in on his thoughts until all he can think is, “I lost it,” and “I need her,” and “Oh, God. no.”

Oh God, why?

If he’d stayed at home, if he’d replaced that chain, if they’d stayed at the game, if his head wasn’t broken--

And as he shakes apart on his bathroom floor, he wishes that Barbara were here. But wishing doesn’t work.

It never does.


	2. you can't pull me up from here (so don't try)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael remembers Barb. A lot.

When Michael and Barbara were freshmen, things were okay. He would meet her at the gas station every morning, because it was halfway between both of their houses. They would get coffee and they would walk to school.

At lunch, Michael sat with Ray and Lindsay because Barbara sat with Kara. It was fine, though (except it really wasn’t). She was getting on just fine with all of Kara’s friends (they hated Barbara). They didn’t have any classes together during their first semester. The only time Michael had with Barbara was the fifteen minute walks to and from school (sometimes it felt like she was using him so she wouldn’t have to be alone).

Barbara used to tell him all about how she didn’t care that Kara’s friends hated her. She always said, “That’s their problem. I don’t care if people are mad at me.”

Except he still remembered when they were in the sixth grade. That time he caught Barb with tears in her eyes as she was exiting the girls’ restroom at a school dance. She’d had an argument with her best friend at the time and Michael had picked up all the fucking pieces, because no matter how many times Barbara said it, he knew she cared.

In October, Barb and Michael argued. It was a Friday. They were walking back home, and Michael had said some things. If he were to think back on it, he wouldn’t remember what he’d said to her, and all he’d seen was her surprised face staring back at him. Eyes wide.

(Eyes terrified).

But he can never remember what he was angry about, and he hopes to God that she forgot as well. He remembered his retreating steps, though. Each heavy footstep landing like a bombshell on the pavement and he tried so hard to imagine the streets cracking instead of his own heart.

(instead of Barbara’s heart).

That night, before throwing his phone under his bed (where all messes were kept unseen), Barbara had tried to explain herself over text, but he wasn’t having it. She won’t care, Michael thought. She won’t care because it’s just me.

On Saturday morning when he turned his phone back on, he had seven messages from Barbara, all stating how sorry she was, how much she needed Michael, how much she cared about him. He apologized as well, and she immediately called him.

He spent the night at her house, where they watched movies and played video games and drank Diet Coke all night

That was the last time Michael and Barbara argued. It had taken him years to realize it, but it had finally sunk in. Even though she never sat with him at lunch, only talked to him before and after school and on the weekends when it was just the two of them, Barbara didn’t like it when Michael was angry with her. She wanted him around.

****  
  


**Saturday September 24, 2011**

The next day when Michael opens his eyes, he decides that he doesn’t want to get out of bed. There are birds outside of his window that won’t shut the fuck up and there’s a thousand thoughts fluttering at the front of his head, begging for his attention. He wants everything to go away. He can hear his mother talking to someone on the phone. Maybe her sister. Maybe her cousin. Maybe his grandma. Maybe it’s Dad. Michael doesn’t know and he can’t care. His phone buzzes from its place underneath his pillow, and maybe that’s what woke him up in the first place.

_(3) New Messages_

His veins turn to ice for a split second before a cold sweat threatens to break out all over his body. “Goddamn,” he mutters to the empty spaces of his room.

_(9:30 am) Ray:_   
_Last night was seriously amazing._

_(9:32 am) Ray:_   
_Seriously haven’t had that much fun at a football game EVER._

_(10:58 am) Lindsay:_   
_If you want, I can come pick you up and we can go look for your dog tag later <3_

He stares down at his phone until the screen goes black. There’s a part of him that wants to be angry with Ray for being so oblivious, and there’s another part of him that wants to say yes to Lindsay’s offer.  Mostly, he’s just mad at himself, because really, it’s his own fault that he feels this way.  

And Michael wants to know when Ray and Lindsay stopped being the same person, because he can see how different they are now. All those nights they spent together while Michael sat alone in his room seem pointless now. Wasted, even. He wonders vaguely if Lindsay is upset with Ray for acting the way he did last night. Michael wants Lindsay to get upset for him, because he doesn’t have the energy to be upset himself.

He decides that he wants to message Lindsay back and not Ray.

_(11:00 am) Michael:_  
 _Thanks, but it’s fine. It’s just a dog tag_.

A lie. A big, fat fucking lie that isn’t there to fool anybody but himself.

He hears the echo of the big, gaping hole inside of him, and he feels it now more than ever.

Maybe he really shouldn’t leave his bed today. Or all weekend even.after throwing his phone under his bed and reassuring his mother that he just wanted to relax, Michael finished an entire season of MasterChef, upped his gamerscore by several hundred points, finished all of his homework, and filled nearly a dozen pages of his journal. By Sunday night, when Michael finally retrieved his phone from under the bed, he was feeling less shitty about losing his dog tag. His smile pretty much dies when he discovers how many texts he has waiting for him.

_(11) New Messages_

__

_(Sep 24, 12:09 pm) Lindsay:_   
_Are you sure? I know how much that thing meant to you._

_(Sep 24, 1:37 pm) Lindsay:_   
_Srsly Michael, it’s not a problem._

_(Sep 24, 3:48 pm) Lindsay:_   
_Hello?_

_(Sep 24, 3:59 pm) Ray:_   
_I’m bored. We should see a movie tonight._

_(Sep 24, 4:45 pm) Ray:_   
_If you want to, that is._

_(Sep 24, 6:03 pm) Ray:_   
_you there?_

_(Sep 24, 6:13 pm) Ray:_   
_All i need is a yes or no, man._

_(Sep 24, 6:34 pm) Ray:_   
_Or not. Whatever works, I guess…_

_(Sep 24, 7:09 pm) Lindsay:_   
_Ray and I are going to see a movie. You should come with us._

_(Sep 25, 10:29 am) Ray:_   
_Did you lose your phone again or something?_

_(Sep 25, 1:34 pm) Lindsay:_   
_Come on, man, don’t shut us out like this again._

Sighing, wanting nothing more than to punch himself in the face, and needing to not think too hard about this, Michael replied to both Ray and Lindsay.

_(Sep 25, 9:20 pm) Michael:_   
_Hey, yeah, sorry. My phone fell under my bed and I couldn’t find it all weekend. Hope you two had fun without me though :P_

Problem solved. Mission accomplished. And maybe Michael shouldn’t find it so easy to lie to his best friends like that, but he’s saving himself from...feeling. From feeling out of place with them, from feeling overwhelmed, from feeling weird when they get concerned about him.

Michael doesn’t want to go to school in the morning.

****  
  


**Monday September 26, 2011**

And when Michael’s alarm goes off that morning, he isn’t tired. He’d gone to bed early the night before. That’s something he’s learned the hard way these past few months. Melting down takes a lot out of him, and he’s thankful for eight hours of sleep.

He stands and stretches, only narrowly avoiding stepping on his laptop that he left on his floor the night before. Tora had been online, and Michael really wanted to talk to her, but he fell asleep waiting for a reply.

ClashJournal is still open when he boots it up, and upon refreshing the page, he finds a new message.

 

_New Message from CL user bluebirds_   
_(11:36 pm)_

_I’m sorry you’re having a tough time, babe. Have you talked to Ray about any of this? It seems like he was being a bitch about everything. Maybe talking to him will make you feel better (and prevent anything like this from happening again)._

Yeah, he thinks, because talking is easy.

He sighs and shuts his laptop. Stick to routine, he thinks. Do what has to be done and nothing more. Michael won’t talk to Ray. Simple as that.

On his way to school that morning, he listened to “Car Underwater” by Armor For Sleep on repeat. Most of the songs on Michael's iPod can be put into three categories. Before Barb, Because of Barb, and After Barb. "Car Underwater" is a Because of Barb song.  It came from a mix CD that she gave to him when they were both thirteen. He has his hands wrapped around his coffee and a beanie pulled over his curls. If he remembers right, there’s an American history test tomorrow, and an algebra quiz on Thursday. Nothing he can’t handle, but it’s all still slightly unnerving.

His train of thought is broken by a car horn and he nearly pisses his fucking pants then and there.

“Hi, Michael!” There’s sand-blond hair and sea green eyes and a British lilt to his damn name passing him by in a shitty two-door car. His heart tumbles and shits its pants in his chest.

“Hi!” Michael yells back and waves, and he isn’t sure how he was even able to get that small response out. And then Gavin is gone, ahead of him and on his way to school.

Michael isn’t sure why it throws him off. Gavin is talking to him. It happens. People grow up in high school, right? It doesn’t settle the storm in his head.

He goes through the day with one earbud in at all times. Noises glued to his eardrums. Noises that quieted the ones in his mind. Michael didn’t know that white noise could cancel out white noise so well until now.

_Forget your problems_   
_Lay it down, they start up_   
_The innocence of what you are is what I want._

Walking between classes with sounds in one ear, Michael likes to pretend to be the protagonist on a television show, with theme music and nice transitions between scenes, or creative lighting to set the mood.

_I've ran my colors dripped down and drained out_   
_Tried a million things, but my heart's been shot._

He shoves his hands into his pockets and lets his hair hang half over his eyes. He is small. He is invisible. This isn’t disappearing, but it’s as good as it gets.

_Well I hope you try to find me, I'm all spun and pacing_   
_I know what you want to say here, so say it._

He walks through the doors of his next class and he takes a seat. Nobody saw him walk in, they only felt the displaced air as Michael passed them. They look around him or through him, but they’ll never see him.

_Well I hope you try to find me, I'm all spun and pacing_   
_I know what you want to say here, so say it._

The bell rings. There’s an empty seat in front of him. It’s always there. Nobody ever sits in this row, the one farthest from the door. Since the teacher doesn’t assign seats, Michael gets this row to himself. He props his feet up on the chair in front of him.

_Forget the words I'm speaking_   
_Just want to rearrange so I'll just say it._

He sighs. His life isn’t a script. This isn’t a storyline. It’s his life.

_I really miss you, I miss you, I said._   
_Smile at the chance just to see you again._   
_I really miss you miss you, I said._   
_Yeah, yeah yeah._

**  
**He sits with Kerry and Miles at lunch. Ray and Lindsay had invited him to tag along with them. They were going to hit up a pizza joint downtown, but he wasn’t really feeling up to it. He eats a yogurt and a granola bar, because it’s all he can stomach.

**  
**“Do you walk to school every morning?” Gavin asks him when he takes his seat in art class. **  
**

Now, Michael Jones can be an asshole, but he isn’t an asshole for no reason. And since Gavin is sitting on his right, he moves his one earbud to his left ear so he can at least look like he’s listening to Gavin. “Every morning. And I walk back every afternoon.”

“You don’t drive?”

“Can’t drive,” Michael admits. “Also, why does it matter?”

“Just asking.”  They pull their sketches from Michael’s folder. He isn’t sure why Gavin doesn’t have one of his own yet. He thinks about telling him to go fucking make one already, but Gavin’s voice is a bulldozer tearing through his thoughts. “I can’t drive either.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Gavin?”

“I don’t have my license.”

Michael blinks. “So you’re driving illegally.”

He shrugs. “Nobody needs to know that. And my parents don’t care as long as I don’t wreck their car.”

“Right,” Michael says slowly. “So your parents moved here with you?”

And Gavin laughs, as if Michael is ridiculous. “No, I mean--foster parents.” He isn’t looking at Michael anymore, instead staring down at his sketch--a mug with steam curling from the top--with a smile on his face.

“So,” Michael begins, but he knows he’s in unfamiliar territory. Thousands of things fly through his head all at once in the span of a second, and he can either say something blunt or not say anything at all, and since he’s already started talking… “You might not be here. Like, permanently.”

Gavin shrugs again. “I mean, I hope I will be. Geoff and Griffon seem to like me.”

And, well, since Michael decided to press on, he’s obligated to ask the good questions, right? So he asks, “What are they like?” And since he’s obligated to be nice, he’s required to remove his one earbud from his ear, as well.

Right?

“Oh man, they’re top.” Gavin explains how Geoff and Griffon and their six year old daughter Millie had been his host family all those years ago. He tells Michael about how much fun they are to talk to and to hang out with. They’re really good at video games, and Griffon carves wooden chainsaw sculptures and they’re both really good with cameras. Gavin explains Geoff’s love of alcohol, and how there’s a good kind of drunk and a bad kind of drunk, and Geoff is only the good kind. The kind that laughs more openly with lazy, half lidded eyes and a permanent toothy grin. He talks about Millie and her love of color, how she dresses and finger paints and lives her life in noisy hues of bright reds and blues. Michael and Gavin’s pencils haven’t left their drawings once during the entire conversation, shading around phrases and adding lines between sentences. “They’re a lot more parent-y than my real parents,” he explains. “They used to get drunk a lot. In the bad way.”

Gavin said it as if he were an ignorant seven year old child, like he didn’t know what had been going on. Michael just assumes that it means he doesn’t want to discuss it.

“My dad gets drunk, too,” Michael admits. “He’s not really a good drunk or a bad drunk. He just gets sad.” And that’s all Michael’s willing to talk about, so he says it with the same innocent tone Gavin had used before.

“Ten minutes to clean up, class!” Mr. Rick calls from the head of the classroom.

Michael jolts a little. It’s a weird feeling, he thinks, forgetting that there are others in the room with him. Michael decides that as of this moment, his pencil sketch is complete and ready to be turned in for a grade. Gavin compliments him, and Michael isn’t sure what to say, never is when someone says something nice to him. He just smiles and says thank you.

And at the end of the day, Michael isn’t sure if he wants Gavin to stop using his folder.

Michael is out the parking lot doors, where Gavin left him and waved goodbye, and on the sidewalk when he opens his phone and sees the text.

_(Sep 26, 3:01 pm) Ray:_   
_Don’t forget we meet with the one act team tomorrow night at 7_

A feeling of dread settles in his gut, his mind, and his goddamn soul. Lindsay told him that they were worried about him, and he doesn’t really see how competitive theater will cure his stuck-in-a-rut home/school/home routine. Michael Jones has never done any sort of extra curricular in his entire life. Not before Barbara, and certainly not after Barbara. He’s going to show his face, let Ray and Lindsay and Mr. Haywood think that he gave it his best shot. It’ll be his first and last after school activity.

He puts his earbud back in and decides that he wants to hear The Used, “In Love and Death.” It’s not a Before Barbara or After Barbara album, and it certainly isn't Because of Barbara. He discovered this band on his own. It’s a Tail End of Eighth Grade Year Album that kept him moving, even though he wanted to stop. Track 2 is the only song Barb liked.

"I Caught Fire."

Some days, Michael isn’t strong enough to listen.

And today is not one of those days, so he listens without skipping tracks and he makes it home halfway through Track 5, "Cut Up Angels."

His phone buzzes in his pocket as he closes his front door, and maybe he should message Ray back.

_(Sep 26, 3:36 pm) Lindsay:_   
_I’m picking you and Ray up tomorrow night._

Yep, Michael thinks. He should most definitely message Ray back, so he sends a group text to both Ray and Lindsay.

_(Sep 26, 3:38 pm) Michael:_   
_I’m not going to put up a fight or anything, but I want you two to know that I am NOT excited about this at all._

_(Sep 26, 3:40 pm) Lindsay:_   
_ <3 _

_(Sep 26, 3:43 pm) Ray:_   
_I think it’ll be fun. Have an open mind._

Easier said than done.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Sorry this took so long to update. An old friend of mine took her own life recently and I've been thinking a lot about her. I wrote her into the outline of this story months ago, and now suddenly she's not here anymore, and her character is going to be the one to fuck everything up for Michael and Gavin later on (much like she did to me in real life). I'm going to continue on like normal, but future updates might take even longer. 
> 
> And as usual, thank you so so so so much for reading <3 It means the world for me. Be sure to leave a comment if you have anything you want to say. I love hearing from you guys :)
> 
> And I know this chapter isn't the greatest. The next one will be better


	3. even if you want me to let go, honey.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Michael's brain short circuits and and theater things happen.

When Michael and Barbara were both freshmen in high school, he thought that everything would get better. It was high school, not junior high. She was smiling more and laughing often. The classes were better, the scenery had changed, people had grown up a little more. However, there must have been something that Michael had missed, or maybe he shouldn’t have been so quick to accept his friend’s mask as truth. After all, things aren’t always as they seem.

So when Michael and Barbara were both freshmen in high school, Barbara attempted suicide for the first time.

There wasn’t anything different about that day. Barbara hadn’t acted out of character and she hadn’t said anything alarming. That morning, as they were leaving the station with their coffee, she’d handed him an album.

 _Bone Palace Ballet_ by Chiodos.

She told him that he could borrow it, because she thought that he would really like it. She was wearing a black jacket with pink and blue paint splatter patterns adorning the torso. They got their coffee and they walked to school. Michael didn’t think anything of it when he didn’t see her at lunch that day. He couldn’t find Kara either, so he just assumed that they’d gone off to do _things_ in the girls’ restroom together. Again.

And nobody told him until he’d asked. That was the worst part.

When he was standing outside, waiting for Barb to come through the double doors, he instead saw Ray. Michael smiled at him, but Ray didn’t smile back.

“Have you seen Barb?” Michael asked.

And Ray. Well, he just stared at him, brows pulled together and mouth curved downwards. Michael found it unnerving that he didn’t say a fucking word until Michael asked him what was wrong.

“Nobody told you?”

“Told me what?”

“Barb went to the hospital, Michael. She collapsed during study hall. They found an empty pill bottle in her backpack.”

Michael wants to say that he felt absolutely shocked by the news, but he wasn’t shocked. He really, really wasn’t. Scared, yes. Disappointed, yes. Stupid and angry and sad, yes.

Not shocked.

He remembers looking down, then back up at Ray’s expression. Left then right then down again. “What?” he asked, because maybe he misheard Ray. Maybe this wasn’t happening. “What--what are you talking about, what does that mean, I don’t--” He stuttered and stumbled over words and phrases, and he realized too late that he was rambling. When Ray put a hand on his arm, Michael knew that he was panicking, because the sensation was muted under the hammering in his chest and the buzzing in his head.

“Lindsay can drive you home,” Ray whispered. “C’mon, she’s waiting for us.”

So Michael tried to take a deep breath, and it almost worked.  When Ray ushered him into Lindsay’s shitty pick-up, in between the two of them, he couldn’t stop it. There were no tears. He couldn’t breathe, and he could feel his chest tightening until it was painful. His hands were shaking, and he couldn’t feel it when Ray and Lindsay interlocked their fingers. The two minute drive from the school to his house felt like a decade.

“You have to breathe, Michael,” Ray told him, but he couldn’t, and he knew that if he didn’t get it under control, he’d pass out. He pulled the front of his hoodie over his face and breathed, like breathing into a paper sack, but not quite as effective. He scrubbed at his eyes with his sleeves, and once he was inhaling and exhaling without his lungs screaming at him to stop, he apologized over, and over, and over again.

“Shut up,” Ray told him. “Quit apologizing, we get it.”

“Do you want us to walk you inside?” Lindsay asked.

He shook his head, because no, it was already bad enough that his mother would know that he’d panicked. She always knew.

Ray let him out of Lindsay’s pick-up and Michael’s mom was there to meet him at the door. She hugged him immediately, which meant that somebody had told her. Somebody had called his mother and told her everything, but Michael had to fucking ask.

“They pumped her stomach and stitched her arm up,” she’d said, and wow, Michael didn’t know about her arm. Bile burned the back of his throat. He almost took off for the bathroom, but he choked it down. “They’re sending her to a psychiatric hospital in the city. You can write her a letter if you want to.”

There wasn’t anything Michael could think to say to his mother, so he nodded his head and went straight to his room.

He sat on his bed with a pen and a notebook for the better part of an hour, unsure and terrified and pissed off.  Normally, those would be the times he would pick his phone up to shoot Barbara a text. Those were the times he needed a break from the inside of his head, or something refreshing that wasn’t a blank page in a composition notebook.  The Chiodos album sat forgotten in his backpack. He was only half sure he wanted to listen to it. Barb gave it to him on the day she intended to end her own life. He didn’t want to know why, but the idea was burning at the front of his skull. He needed to know, so he loaded it up onto his laptop and hit play.

The words on the page, half scribbled out and half certain and not good enough, flowed from the tip of Michael’s pen up until the third track played and the chorus caught his attention.

_“You won’t be leaving my arms ever. I promise you that. Even if you want me to let go, honey. Even if you want me to let go.”_

The page in his notebook tore easily enough, but it wasn’t as satisfying as the noise the metal spiral made as the notebook itself collided with the wall directly across from him.

Michael decided at that moment, after meaningful words and phrases were flung across the room and left to splatter and scatter in ways that shook the ground beneath his bed, that nothing on the planet could hurt quite like this did.

He tried to think back over the recent months to see if he could find what had been there all along, the thing he couldn’t seem to see when it was staring him in the face. If he could just read the signs, follow along, and look that little bit closer, maybe he could make it stop. The only other person who spends more time with Barb than him is Kara, and Michael’s willing to bet that she knew this would happen all along. Quite frankly, he was growing tired of this; letting Kara stand by and do nothing, letting himself stand by and do nothing, letting Barb treat herself this way. He was done letting it happen.

After all, one attempt was one too many.

**  
  
**

**Tuesday September 27th, 2011**

When Michael walks into the school theater with Ray and Lindsay, he’s expecting to see one type of person. The beret wearing, cigarette smoking hipster with their plaid shirts buttoned all the way up to their necks, with their alternative haircuts and I’m-better-than-you attitudes. However, that isn’t what Michael sees, and he realizes that maybe he watches too much television and reads too many books. He sees half of the cheerleaders sitting together in one row of seats. He sees one or two boys from the football team, a handful of kids from his art class, underclassmen he’s never said a single word to, and kids in his own class that he’s maybe shared a second of eye contact with. Not exactly what he expected, and that’s probably a good thing.

Ray and Lindsay drag him to an empty row. He guesses that there are maybe forty people here in all. Mr. Haywood is standing on the stage with a clipboard, and he’s speaking to Mr. Heyman.

“We should go out for coffee after this,” Lindsay tells them both.

Michael turns towards her and Ray both, having been put in the aisle seat. “I don’t have any cash on me.”

“Coffee on us, then,” she says, leaving absolutely no room for argument. Michael knows what she’s doing, and while it does make him uncomfortable, it would be even more awkward if he told her no.

“Alright, guys!” they hear from the stage. “Can I have everybody’s attention?” Mr. Haywood asks. The theater falls silent. “Good. Okay. Welcome to one act. I see a lot of familiar faces, and quite a few new ones. My name is Ryan Haywood and I am your director. And this,” he gestures towards Mr. Heyman, “Is Joel Heyman, and he is your other director.” Mr. Heyman waves.

Haywood is a teacher at their high school. He teaches drama and speech class. Heyman is also a teacher, with freshman, junior, and senior English classes and an American literature class. Neither of them are strangers to Michael.

“We’re going to split this meeting up into two groups,” Mr. Heyman begins. “Cast, you’ll stick around in here with me, and crew, you can follow Mr. Haywood out into the theater commons. Go.”

“Welp,” Ray says as he stands and stretches. “That’s us.”

Michael stands as well, as do half of the people in the theater. Ray follows Michael out the doors at the back of the theater. Both familiar and unfamiliar faces surround him, so he sticks close to Ray.

“I need everyone to sit in a circle!” Mr. Haywood calls out.

Jon Risinger, a senior PA from his art class, is one of the people Michael knows. He sees a girl named Payten that he shares a table with in biology. She’s with her group of friends. There are five of them. He sees Tina Dayton, a sophomore from his art class, with a kid named Connor practically glued to her side. And he sees--

“Hi, Michael,” Gavin is suddenly next to him, smiling, eyes shining.

“Hey, Gavin.” He grabs Michael’s arm, and Michael grabs Ray, as he pulls them to an empty space in the circle. “Let’s sit together.”

Ray gives him The Look. Raised eyebrow, mouth forming a straight line.  That’s his what-the-fuck-Michael look.  And this is that thing people always talk about in books when they say that they can read their best friend’s mind, but it’s just that he’s familiar with Ray’s body language. So familiar, that he can recite the train of thought behind the gestures word for word. Michael isn’t sure why he deserves the what-the-fuck-Michael look until it dawns on him that it may have slipped his mind to tell Ray and Lindsay that he’d been talking to local British transfer student and one of the coolest kids in school (if not THE coolest kid in school). To be fair, he’s been under the assumption that the only person who finds this strange is him, and he chalked it up to the glitch in his head.

“Didn’t know you did one act,” Gavin comments.

Michael crosses his legs and pulls the sleeves of his jacket over his hands. “I don’t,” he admits. “Or, well, I haven’t done it before.”

“This’ll be my first year, too. There was a small theater group at my old school back in England. And, you know, it’s going to get me out of class.”

“Dude, that’s what I said!” Ray chimes in.

The meeting lasted all of fifteen minutes. Mr.Haywood--”Call me Ryan. Mr. Haywood sounds weird to me.”--covered what being a part of the theater crew was all about.

“We haven’t picked the play yet, so we have no idea what our set will need to look like. Which brings me to the good part of the meeting. Show of hands, how many of you are good with power tools?”

Several kids raise their hands, including Gavin. Michael can’t hold back a laugh, because Gavin seems a little...all over the place on a good day. Put a drill in his hands and, yeah, let’s see who ends up with an accidental hole in their head.

“And show of hands, who here is good with things like color and paint?”

Michael feels threatened when he sees how many others raise their hands. He came to slap paint onto a few boards, and it seems that there are other kids with the same exact idea.

Ryan explains what he expects from his crew members. Teamwork, progress, efficiency. All that jazz. Michael thinks that maybe he can work with everyone here easily enough, but he isn’t so sure that they’ll want to work with him.  

The set needs built and painted, and the hardest part, he finds out, is hauling said set from competition to competition, setting up in less than ten minutes and tearing down in time for the next play. It’s all about practice and speed. but Michael just wants to paint the set and leave.

Actually, Michael wouldn’t object to just leaving now. He could tell everyone that theater isn’t really his thing, and he’d say that his friends dragged him here, and he’d say that this doesn’t sound like something that he would be great at, because, really, Michael wouldn’t be lying if he’d explained all of this to Ryan. Hell, Ryan probably knows all about this. He’s willing to bet that Lindsay’s already talked to him about it. Oh please, Mr. Haywood, we’re so worried about him, please pretend he’s needed here.

He shakes the thoughts from his head. Those are irrational thoughts. Inadequacy at its finest, but realizing that didn’t make the words sting any less.

“And...yeah! That’s basically everything you need to know about competitive one act,” Ryan finishes. “Crew is free to leave. We’ll meet again next Tuesday in the theater, where we’ll announce our play and Joel and I will hopefully have jobs for all of you.”

And they were dismissed.

The circle breaks apart as everyone stands and heads in different directions. “We’re still waiting on Lindsay, though,” Ray says.

“Let’s just go sit in on their meeting,” Michael suggests. He turns towards Gavin to see if he wants to join them, but he’s staring down at his phone, thumbs flying and face blank. “Gavin?”

He glances up and smiles a little. “Nah, I’ve got to run,” and he claps a hand on his shoulder. “Good seeing you, though, Michael. One act is going to be top with you here.” He’s gone after that. Heading towards the door with his hands shoved into his pockets.

“See you, Gavin!” MIchael calls after him. He gets a wave in return.

Ray doesn’t ask the question until they’re seated in the middle of the back row. The cast is doing improv exercises for Mr. Heyman, who told everybody to act like a mime. Lindsay looks fucking ridiculous.

“So, when did you get friendly with Gavin Free?” Ray asks.

Michael presses his lips together and breathes in. “Since Mr. Rick sat him down next to me in art class.”

“Right. Okay.”

“He started it. I’m just as surprised as you are, believe me.” He really shouldn’t have to explain himself like this, and maybe Ray is just curious, or maybe he’s being condescending because Michael never brought it up, or maybe Michael is just overthinking things again.

**  
  
**

At the coffee shop, Ray ordered Michael a chai latte. Lindsay had commandeered the couch for them while they waited for their drinks.

“Are you still mad at us?” Lindsay asks from the couch.

“Of course I am. You guys went behind my back and signed me up for this bullshit,” Michael explains.

“Yeah, but it’s not like we did it to piss you off.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t it, though?”

He turns towards her, his eyes unmoving and hers sharp. He can tell that Ray is watching the two of them. “You don’t seem to understand what’s wrong.”

That’s when their order number was called out. The tension breaks like their eye contact and the subject is changed.

**  
  
**

**Post to: ltmkilla.clashjournal.com**

**Entry Title** :   _My Friends Are Assholes: The Sequel_

_Tuesday September 27, 2011_

_We had a meeting for one act tonight. We’ve got two directors--Mr. Haywood (who prefers Ryan) and Mr. Heyman. Cast and crew was split up. Crew’s meeting took maybe fifteen minutes. Tops. Almost wasn’t even worth showing my face. Ray and I had to wait for Lindsay to get done with the cast meeting._

_Gavin sat with Ray and I during our meeting. I’m not sure if I’ve talked about him on here._

_I knew him years ago. We had the same homeroom, but we never talked. He thinks it was because I never wanted to talk to anybody, but I’m certain it was because nobody wanted to talk to me. We were partnered up for some shitty end-of-the-school-year game, with a water pistol and a candle and then he moved back to England (did I mention he’s a transfer student?) Mr. Rick decided that Gavin could sit next to me in our intro to art class. At first, I was irritated, but Gavin’s alright._

_Ray grilled me after he left, though. The thing is if you look at it this way, Gavin could be the most popular kid in our class. He’s got the hair, the accent, that angle. People love shit like that. They eat it up.  And Ray asked me when I’d started talking to him like it didn’t make any sort of sense, and why should it?_

_People grow and change. Gavin is treating me like a friend and Ray says it’s strange. Is it because Gavin is Gavin or is it because I’m Michael?_

_In other news, one act sounds tedious and I’m not sure I want to go through with it.  Next practice is on October 4th._

Michael marks the entry as “Friends Only” and posts it. There are no new entries or comments from any of his CJ friends and he doesn’t have anything new from Tora. Twitter keeps his attention for a total of five minutes and his Facebook notifications are stuck at zero, as usual.

He’s ready to call it quits and head for bed early when a little red number pops up. One new friend request on Facebook. Michael thinks he knows who it is, but he isn’t going to get his hopes up over a fucking number in a red box.

 

_Gavin Free would like to be your friend!_

 

Michael smiles and clicks accept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Sorry about the super delayed update. Things happened. I participated in NaNoWriMo (wrote an X-Ray and Vav fic and won!) and I registered for college classes, so that's a thing I've been getting ready for. Everything is stress right now, but I just feel like I need to write at the moment, so here's an update! The next chapter is already half done :) I have no idea how much time I'm going to have when the semester begins. My classes begin in January and I haven't been in school since 2013 so like, this is going to be quite the transition. Tbh, all I want to do is write six thousand fic updates for you guys. Hope all of you are having a fantastic holiday season! <3 xx
> 
> Here's a link to Chiodos' song "Lexington." http://youtu.be/VPctgF4nCR0


	4. a brick boot swimming lesson in the deep end of my adolescence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Been awhile, huh? 
> 
> I haven't given up on this story, I've just been busy with college and loads of family stuff. My grandmother passed away seven months ago and it hasn't been an easy thing to deal with, but you guys have been super patient and lovely, and every time I get a comment on this story, it makes me want to write a little more. I'm currently in school again, so updates could be few and far between. 
> 
> chapter title from "Notes" by Modern Baseball, which doesn't really have anything to do with the story line but I just thought it fit.

When Michael was a sophomore, he thought he was in love with Barbara. He’d never been in love before, but he thought that maybe he knew what it was supposed to feel like. An uncontrollable smile every time she enters the room. A lightness in his chest, a good feeling about the day, an empty feeling when he didn’t get to see her, and a constant stream of her face her eyes her voice her everything stuck in his head when she wasn’t right next to him.

She never noticed, or maybe she just didn’t care.

He’d never liked a girl before in his life, and he hadn’t really felt much of anything for anyone since Austin had left town. He supposed it was like a song, one that had been playing on repeat for ages without him noticing.

It was something familiar and yet, at the same time it was something brand new and infuriatingly different that derailed his entire being. He felt as if he’d defined himself wrong, like his labels didn’t fit quite right anymore and like he didn’t actually know himself as well as he thought he did. However, it wasn’t something that brought his whole world crashing down. It was a reform of sorts. He had to find himself.

So he spent that year with his mouth shut. He didn’t tell a soul about it, just in case it wasn’t right. Maybe this was a phase. Straight people had “gay phases,” right? Maybe Michael was having a straight phase.

None of it made sense until he talked to Tora about it. All of his secrets were safe with her as long as there were fifteen hours and thousands of miles between them. At that point, they’d been messaging each other on ClashJournal for eight months and she knew a thing or two about him. His thing with Austin, the razor blade at the back of his dresser drawer, and all the thoughts in his head. The message she’d sent read a little like this:

_I don’t think you should overthink this thing. Love is a big word, dear. And it sounds like you could just be fiercely protective of her. You’re sixteen. Take a step back and and a deep breath. Leave it alone for a little while. If you still feel the same way a year from now, I’ll admit I was wrong._

And suddenly, it wasn’t a phase. It wasn’t love or happiness or a lightness in his chest so powerful that he floated up to greet the ceiling fan. Tora didn’t have to admit anything because she was right.

It wasn’t love at all. It was relief. Seeing her take a breath, smile, laugh, live a little more. Barbara wasn’t stuck in a room with no door, or wearing shoes with no laces, writing in her journal with pencils so dull nobody could read the words on the page. She wasn’t in a hospital because they were existing in the same place, breathing the same air. It was a dangerous connection, but the two things were mutually exclusive. Tora had to talk him out of it. _Stop searching for yourself_ , she’d said. _You’re right here_. He wanted Barb where he could see her so she wouldn’t try to leave him again. She was alive when she was next to him, and maybe he wanted to keep her around so he could keep her alive.

 

**Tuesday October 4th, 2011**

In the short amount of time it takes for the next theater meeting to happen, Michael has managed to write fifteen pages in a Word document. It’s just something that had been in his head for ages. Sometimes his words just build up and up and up until he can’t stop them from coming out. This particular story isn’t anything special. There’s a boy and a boy, because straight couples in stories are so common. He just wants to even it out a little. They fall in love, obviously, but he’s not there yet. FIfteen pages isn’t enough room for a good story, if you ask Michael. They probably won’t even kiss until page forty. Or maybe they won’t get that far. Maybe Michael will tear them apart before things can even really begin. He hasn’t decided yet.

He keeps coming home from school in a rush, because if he’s honest, this is his favorite part of the day. He’ll open his laptop and start writing again. Sometimes, he’ll already have a paragraph or two in his pocket that he’d written during school. Sometimes, he won’t be able to get more than ten words out in an hour, so he’ll spend hours staring up at his ceiling, searching for the right scenarios, the right names, piecing lives together like puzzles until he gets it right, or until he’s interrupted by a phone call or his mother calling him to dinner.  

During his creative blocks, he might write an entry on ClashJournal about his day. Tora hasn’t been online in a week, which isn’t unusual. She’s busy with university.

He’s content with this, whatever this is. There’s never been anything wrong with it before, so why now? This was his everyday after-school life, and the more he thinks about it, the angrier it makes him. There really wasn’t anything to worry about as long as he was constantly writing, whether it was a journal entry or an actual story. No reason to worry.

Time seems to just move at hyper speed, despite wanting it to slow the fuck down. It’s gone by way too fast for Michael’s liking. There isn’t a bone in his body that wanted to go back to the theater, but there’s also a little voice in his head that sounds a lot like Barbara that keeps saying, “Distract yourself.”

So he piles into Lindsay’s truck with Ray and they drive to the high school at six o’clock on a Tuesday night. They sit in a cluster on the floor just outside of the stage doors.

“We’ve decided that we’d like to perform a modern take on Rapunzel for our play,” Ryan reveals. It takes every ounce of self control Michael has not to roll his eyes. It was all so stupid to Michael. Extracurricular things are for people with more energy than they know what to do with. Michael isn’t one of those people. Michael has to drag his limbs and force his breath. He doesn’t have spare energy.

“Set should be simple this year. We’re thinking wooden boxes and a scaffolding with long, flowing fabrics. A lot of pastel colors. Those of you on crew should get together and discuss. As for cast…”

Ray stands up along with every other crew member. Discussion. Now. Right. Michael sighs as he stands as well. “Tired?” Ray asks as Michael yawns a little.

Always. “Nah, just bored already.”

“We’ve been here for maybe five minutes.”

“Five minutes too long,” Michael rolls his eyes.

Discussion seems to translate to, "Let the Large and In Charge upperclassmen tell everyone what to do," which Michael has no issue with. Without the control freaks, he would be completely lost.

"First thing's first, there are plenty  of wooden crates and boxes downstairs that we can paint over,” one of the girls tells everyone. " We should go check those out, and if we find any fabrics from last year’s plays, gather them up and we’ll see what we can salvage."

He follows the group to a set of stairs under the stage. He didn’t even know a “downstairs” existed. It was narrow, dark, echo-y, cold and clammy. The person at the front of the group finds the lightswitch and reveals a world of color and concrete to Michael. There are stacks of plywood in one corner, signs hanging from the walls that are covered in signatures and graffiti. There are paint cans, costumes, and boxes full of crap scattered about. A strange Shakespearean playground. The crowd disperses and leaves MIchael behind as he traces the ghosts of one act’s past with the tips of his fingers and he admires the shitty penmanship on their graves. The wall itself is rough, losing its one coat of paint in large chunks. That’s where the names reside; beneath the paint. Cassie. Chad. Sydney. Adam. Cassie again. Four different Michaels. Summer. Frankie. Lex. Maggie. Kevin. Jay. Nicole. Dalton. Gene. Paul. Jonathon. There were little smiley faces and hearts and tiny drawings everywhere. Jenny hearts Trip. Somebody tried to scribble out the word "faggot." A butterfly on a flower. A cat face. A crappy little house. All of them look as if children had drawn them, except they were all at Michael’s eye level, meaning someone his age did them. He wonders how many of them are in their thirties, forties, fifties, which ones are lawyers and doctors, which ones are deadbeats, if any of them got married, how many of them are six feet under or on their way out as he’s reading their names.

“Hey, Michael?”

He whips around faster than he means to and nearly trips on his own two feet. Luckily his back makes contact with all of the names and doodles and cold concrete. He could embarrass himself some other time. Right now, he’s got his eyes locked with Gavin’s and he’s trying not to look as startled as he feels. “Yeah?” is all he can get out.

He’s expecting something harsh from Gavin. A “Don’t be such a freak,” or maybe a “What the fuck is your problem?” But it never comes. Instead, Gavin’s face remains quizzical, brows drawn together the slightest bit, and he asks his question casually, as if they know each other’s blood types and what the insides of their heads look like.“Can you help me carry this upstairs?” He points to a yellow box that’s sitting against the wall behind him. It’s not particularly large. Mostly awkward, he guesses.

Michael nods his head and pushes himself away from the wall. He glances around for a moment, looking for Ray, who is already carrying a cardboard box full of fabrics up the stairs. He tries not to feel abandoned. “Are we actually going to use all these boxes?”

“Not sure yet. They want all of the things we find lined up in the hallway so we can talk about, like, placement and necessity, I guess.”

 _Sounds pointless._ “Awesome.”

The box itself isn't actually heavy, but it's large and awkward with splinters lining every edge. Gavin would have destroyed his hands if he hadn't asked Michael for assistance. They don't talk, because they're concentrating on getting up the stairs without dying, or at least seriously injuring themselves.

They place it next to a few other boxes that have already been lined up along the wall. When Michael turns around, Ryan gives him a nod and a thumbs up, which is oddly reassuring. Good job, you did something right. He wipes his hands on the front of his jacket and sighs.

"Thanks, Michael," Gavin says.

"No problem."

The strange part about following Gavin back down the stairs is that it's wordless. He could've done something else, went off on his own, back to his wall of memorials, or even back home like he'd wanted to do the second he walked through the doors. Following him to a new box is also wordless, but in a different way. He's got words in his head, an inner monologue telling him that it's safe to stick around. It also tells him that leaving would prove a point. Don't fucking fuck with Michael goddamn Jones because he's serious about never leaving his room. It's a strange tangent.

"I think we can each carry one of these," Gavin states.

Michael looks at the crate in his hands. "Hand it over," Michael responds. And they go back up the stairs, to the line of boxes by the wall, and down again.

The front room is cleared out fast and a massive group of people are clogging the entry way to the second room. Gavin makes his way through the door, leaving Michael behind most likely without even realizing it. Paint cans and boxes of nails and screws and several hammers and drills are brought out. Gavin seems to have found plastic bags filled with paint brushes. He makes his way towards the stairs without even glancing in Michael’s direction.

Through this door, there are shelves lining the walls and they’re all filled with books. Upon closer inspection, he finds that there are several copies of each book. Assigned reading. He looks at the spine and finds nothing of interest, which he supposes is hardly a surprise. There are racks of dresses and hats and suits, and when Michael turns to leave, he sees masks lining the walls. They send chills and shivers running up and down his spine. He cringes and (though he’ll deny it if it ever comes up) lets out a startled squeak. He’s spooked enough to leave the room in a rush, which is what causes him to run straight into Jon Risinger.

“Whoa, excuse me,” is all Jon says. Not even a glance in Michael’s direction.

An overwhelming sense of I’m-not-sure-what-I’m-doing washes over him. He lets his eyes dart from corner to corner, scanning the floor for anything to bring up the stairs, but without Gavin to tell him what to do, he’s frozen. Brain overloading. On reflex, his fingers land on his chest where _Michael and Babs_ _Forever_ used to reside. Where’s Ray? Did he leave without me? How do all these people know what to take upstairs?

“Wait, is your name Michael Jones?” Jon asks.

He tries not to look completely startled when he replies, but he probably does anyway. “Yeah?”

“Ryan is looking for you. He’s upstairs somewhere.”

“Uh, alright.” And before Jon can disappear on him like Ray and Gavin did, he speaks out. “What’s he want?”

“Not a clue. Good luck, kid.”

The thing about Ryan Haywood is that he’s crazy. Not clinically insane, as far as he knows. It’s just rumors and whatnot. The man wears a kilt at least twice a year, and supposedly he’ll give extra credit to kids who are failing his classes, but only if they do unusual things for him. If the man wants you to wear a shirt that reads “I heart my mother” in big pink letters, it is law and it must be done.

He’s sitting in the center of the front row listening to auditions with Mr. Heyman. Michael is about to take a seat next to him when Ryan glances up at him and gives him the “wait a second” finger. He whispers something to Mr. Heyman before standing, gesturing for them to move away.  He leads Michael to the back of the theater. They don’t sit down. Ryan smiles at him and it looks a little strange in the dim lighting.

“Your friend tells me you’re a good artist,” Ryan states.

And he refrains from rolling his eyes at that, because of course they told Ryan to make him feel useful, just like he suspected.  “I mean, I guess,” is all Michael says.

“Well, I have a project for you. If you’re feeling up to it, of course. You definitely don’t have to take it on,”

“Right,” Michael smiles a little, but it’s forced. “Well, I’m not sure if I’m sticking around, so maybe it’d be better off in someone else’s hands.”

“That’s too bad, Michael. Your friend thinks you’re the man for the job.”

“Did Lindsey put you up to this?” It falls out of his mouth without his consent. Rude and sudden. Ryan doesn’t even flinch. “Or was it Ray?”

“Neither, actually. It was Mr. Gavin Free who recommended you.”

That startles him into silence. There’s a sea of angry words that want to overflow and flood the theater, but Gavin’s name acts as a wall of sandbags, a dam, or maybe he’s the sun and it all just evaporated into nothing.

“We need someone to design a crest of sorts. A massive ‘R’ for Rapunzel. Not too complicated, but not too simple. And then we’d need it painted onto several pieces of the set.”

“That’s it?”

“Well, yes, but if you’re planning on leaving--”

“I’ll think about it.”

Ryan smiles. “Good to hear, Michael.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again :) If you're reading this, that means you've read the first chapter. If you've read the first part of this series, you might know that this is based on things that happened to me in real life. FIrst off, I'd just like to say that, unlike Screw Loose, this sequel isn't as accurate. While the events are mostly parallel to ones from my own life, I've switched things up a bit for the sake of storytelling. If you ask, I'll tell you what's straight from my online journal and what's fabricated. Secondly, that means that I know exactly what's going to happen, when it's going to happen, and how it's going to happen. This is fairly easy to write and I'll most likely complete this series.
> 
> Gavin is based off of a girl I knew in high school. Everything that happens with him probably happened in real life. Except we didn't have art class together. We had psychology...art class is more interesting, though, yeah?
> 
> A lot of you guys left comments and feedback for me on Screw Loose, and I love every single one of you for it. If you feel I did something wrong, feel free to tell me. You'd be doing me a favor. Also, if you feel I should tag for something that could possibly be triggering, just say the word and I'll do so. A lot of the time, I'm updating from my tablet, so sometimes my tags don't update like they should. I'll be double checking that from now on, though.
> 
> You can find me at hellotoysoldiers.tumblr.com, and I pretty much follow everybody back. :P
> 
> And let me know what you guys think of this chapter! xx


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